Planet of Ice
by Nikkel
Summary: The world is a cold, desolate place for lonely souls. To survive they must intertwine, learn, love, despite their differences and their causes. Vincent and Real must understand this most. . . Oneshot collection.
1. Cold

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**Take**** My Hand, Let Me Follow**

_By Nikkel_

(c) to Geneon Entertainment

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**Cold**

There was always something captivating about the mornings to Real Mayer.

As a little girl she would wake up early to watch a new day unfold. She would stir from bed and scramble to the window. Every day. She would request the window open if she was sick.

Later, though, she learned that the lights she saw in the morning were fake. Artificial. Like all of Romdeau. Terrible truth for a little girl. From that point on, she found everything boring and nothing beautiful.

The ritual had only started again when the nights were long and the days were short on the Centzon. She didn't know why she would get up. She just did. She awoke before Vincent and Pino, rousing herself and dressing in her winter coat. It wasn't that warm. Daedalus had purchased it for her—Romdeau may have replicated the four seasons, but they were understatements of the harsher elements.

And now she sat on the iron deck of the Rabbit, burying herself in what warmth the coat offered, eyes locked on the distant horizon. For only ten minutes in the day did the cloudy sky seem to glow pale green. It was a sickly color, morose and weak. Natural phenomenon of a world long-faded. But Real found it beautiful.

"Geez, out here already?"

_Sigh_. Vincent complaining. He mumbles something about the toilet (he kept leaving the seat up, and now she made him go outside to use the bathroom). Ruin the moment, he was good at that. She listened to his footsteps pad across the metal surface, wrenching the hatch open. Well, at least he had the dignity to go inside.

The sky was still green. Unhealthy, but ultimately captivating. Surreal. Necromanced ghosts chasing emerald clouds.

Vincent was back. His footsteps echoed through the silence as a lightning bolt splits the sky in a storm. Real winced in annoyance.

"_What_?" she growled.

Vincent physically jumped back at the sound of her voice. He had expected something maybe a little softer in the morning, but then again, this was Real. He sighed, blanket drooping in his hands. "It's cold."

"And?"

"I thought. . . that. . ." He mutters something beneath his breath. He can never seem to get out a complete sentence around her. He considers turning around.

"Speak up," she told him. "I can't hear you."

He takes tentative steps forward. "I thought you would be cold."

Sapphire eyes glance. His hands clench around the blanket nervously. He's about to apologize. Real reaches up and takes the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders. She waits a moment, but for what he doesn't know, and he stands there. Sapphire eyes glance again. "Sit."

He is down on the command. He shivers violently and retracts his legs to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. "Gah. . ."

This earns him another glance. He is too freezing to notice. Real sighs, takes off the blanket, and puts it on his shoulders. He looks at her questioningly. She smirks, but says nothing. Laughing on the inside.

The sky isn't green anymore, but that's quite all right. It's nice to have someone sit with you while doing nothing anyways.

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**Author's Note: **This is going to be a little series of mine, connected shots or no. It'll show my love for Ergo Proxy and the poetry style I attempt to imitate. Updated whenever I feel the need to.


	2. Fail

**Take My Hand, Let Me Follow  
**_By Nikkel  
_(c) to Geneon Entertainment

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**Fail**

When she came in the doorway looking for him, all time was on pause. Frozen obsidian iceberg floating on midnight water she stood, white hand raised above her head. Guardian entourage behind her, eyes calculating and burning into his own, though his were squeezed shut and terrified. Suspected of too many crimes he did not commit, but considered guilty of them all.

"Vincent Law." Titanium words over liquid metal lips.

He stumbled, mind fumbling to match the razor's edge, drawing up with a blunt response.

"I-Inspector Real." The name came, surprisingly. Petro Seller had said it, called for her, and the name had buried itself in Vincent's neurons. Don't forget it, especially not now.

She spoke more steel words, cool and grey. Gracefully placed, preventing dull confusion. His name came again, and this time his mouth could not keep up. He sighed heavily and bowed his head.


	3. Peanut Butter

**Take My Hand, Let Me Follow  
**_By Nikkel  
_(c) to Geneon Entertainment

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**Peanut Butter**

"Our rations are getting low," Real announced as they sat down for dinner that night.

"What do we have left?" Vincent asked. He twirled the spaghetti around his fork.

"Two boxes of pasta, three cartons of powdered milk, seven packages of dried onion, thirteen jars of peanut butter, and at least twenty-four cans of beans."

Vincent blinked. "Why so many beans?"

She glared at him. "_You're _the one that went shopping."

He shrugged. "You could've helped," he sighed uselessly.

"And what's with the peanut butter?"

"I like peanut butter."

Silence. Real taps her pen on the pad of paper in her hand. She muses for a moment and says, "Bring me some."

"Some what?"

She rolls her eyes. He gets the message and clambers to the cabinet. He pulls out a jar and spoon. He opens the top for her. She tastes it.

"This is terrible."

They both frown. Vincent takes the jar and spoon, setting it on the table between them.

Real stands. "We should finish that before anything else."

Three weeks later, when eating nothing but beans, Real sorely regretted that statement. Because she never thought she'd be craving for something she hated.


	4. Conciousness

**Take My Hand, Let Me Follow**_  
By Nikkel_  
(c) to Geneon Entertainment

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**Sharing**

. . . _Consciousness. . . flitting in and out. . . can't focus. . . sick. So sick. . . coughing, vomit. . . too hot. . . no, cold. . . so sick. . ._

Vincent watched with hovering eyes at her shivering form. She tossed and turned, mumbling nonsense to herself, eyes wearily opening and never remembering anything. The Sickness, they called it here at the Commune. It infected all from Romdeau, and Real Mayer was no different.

He jumped when a hand grabbed his ankle. He snapped out of his wandering reverie to see Real pulling at his sock. Totally out of it.

"Give," she rasped. He blinked. He couldn't understand what she wanted.

"_Give_," she said again, maybe a little more commanding. He then noticed the tin flask next to the chair he was sitting in. Hoody had let him drink from it to calm his nerves. He screwed open the top and handed it to her. She wearily brought it to her lips, sipping it, holding it in her mouth, and then abruptly spat it out, coughing.

"Dammit," she cursed. "Tequila."

Vincent wasn't quite sure what to say. "Um. . . you don't like it?"

The feverish woman did not reply. She flopped onto her back and pulled the covers over her head.

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**Author's Note: **I'm hoping this one wasn't too vague. It was supposed to hint that Real's a harder drinker - more like vodka or something. She'd find tequila too sweet. Don't ask me how they're able to obtain liquor, though, what with no corn. . . or potatoes. . . or barley. . . or really anything. Kinda makes you wonder where all the food comes from.


	5. Nightmare

**Take My Hand, Let Me Follow**

_By Nikkel_

(c) to Geneon Entertainment

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**Nightmare**

It was not her companion's noises that roused her from her slumber, but the cold. Real clutched the edges of her blanket. Damn cold in the Centzon. Didn't Vincent ever know how to turn up the heat?

She sat up, glaring at the stirring bundle in the bed across from her, whimpering and shuddering and breathing unsteadily. Generally no cause for concern, but. . . why was he doing that? Shouldn't he be asleep?

Feet shuffling along steel-plaqued floor she crossed over to him, blanket around her shoulders, watching him. Sweating. Mumbling. Squirming. She reached a delicate hand out to his naked shoulder.

Suddenly white eyes popped open and venomous vampire teeth flashed and his hand lashed out to grab her wrist, ripping her off her feet and on top of him, but then in a flurry of movement so he was positive and she negative. Her voice and breath catches in her throat when he is upon her.

Was this what they called. . . a _dream_?

The Proxy grows weary, skin fades to white, toppling over. Snoring peacefully. She waits. Nothing.

She gets up and turns up the heat. She goes back to bed.

She'll ask him about it in the morning.


End file.
